


Dalish Rose

by MikShepard



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: AU, F/F, Hawke is a douche, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 11:38:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2227605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikShepard/pseuds/MikShepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marian Amell does not take no for an answer. The spoiled noble sees a Dalish in need and offers a helping hand. That helping hand turns out to be a polite form of servitude but cleaning floors and picking up after brats is better than sucking dick in a dirty alley to pay rent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dalish Rose

**Author's Note:**

> This AU has been bothering me for a bit, so I decided to write it. Leandra stayed in Kirkwall to marry the Comte de Launcet and had three children: Marian, Carver, and Bethany. Their lives are vastly different in Kirkwall than they would have been in Ferelden and the three grow up to be spoiled brats.
> 
> (I hope all the warnings don't scare you away XD)

Marian Amell did not take kindly to being told no, a trait acquired from her long dead grandfather-Maker rest the old bastard’s soul. Shouting matches and grudges were long and bloody in the Amell household-too many people with too short of tempers in a small space-but she won in the end. It came with being the eldest.

Indulgent, selfish, the perfect mix of wealth and good genes, Marian got what she wanted; flesh was her favorite commodity, currently. Noble ladies and painted whores from Lowtown; dark skinned Rivaini swaggering off their ships, smelling of salt and sex; pale Orlesians fluttering about in silk and wearing their old names like armor; hard eyed Fereldans with rough hands and thick accents, pressing their Andrastian prattle; pointy eared elven servants -slaves, or near enough that she declined to spot the differences-trailing after their masters with shifty eyes and quick hands.

She could have it all with a flick of her wrist. Hunting for the perfect quarry was the issue. Marian-much to the dismay of her many(ex)fiancées-had a short attention span, burning feverish for a short time before sputtering to a halt. Noble women were much too tame for her taste, sailors too prone to carry disease; no one was good enough to pass her mother’s rigorous testing as it was.

Family names didn’t interest her and she owned no particular loyalty to her own or the image that came with it. At parties(her mother’s idea, to socialize her with others in her class)she assessed everyone, sliding over servants and nobles alike, until she found one she liked. A heated kiss shared in a Count’s bedroom with one his own servants-an elven girl with breasts that hung like ripe peaches and lips that begged to be kissed-lead to much more during one such party.

The horrified look on Leandra’s face when she found her daughter three fingers deep in a servant-a ‘filthy knife ear’, her mother’s words- was well worth the groveling she had to do later for ‘defiling’ the Count’s bed.

If Marian was to judge, she would have doubted the bed ever saw something so carnal. The Count was a hideous men, so much so that she almost questioned if his parents were, in fact, related; he did wear the ‘inbred’ look rather well.

Gold bought him pretty little servants and a wife-Francesca, she thought was her name-whose inclinations matched Marian’s own; it was most definitely not his over bright personality or dim witted humor that attracted said Antivan woman. A fortnight after the party, the Count’s wife came to her; bringing sweet summer wine as a gift they both drank to rid of any false modesty. Her creamy skin-ebony and smooth as silk-tasted more delectable than any wine and her release left a sweet aftertaste in Marian’s mouth.

No amount of groveling could have calmed the man down if he found out just how much his wife squealed under Marian’s fingers. Whenever she spotted the woman now, she had three ugly ducklings following after her; motherhood suited her, she was practically aglow, but Marian would miss their rumps.

Francesca’s taste for back allies caught them in peculiar situations often, the best of which leading to a threesome with a Rivani pirate Marian knew only as ‘Isabela’. The woman wore her name like her clothing, likely to cast it off when she grew bored of it; Marian doubted that was her true name but she lacked the capacity to care and she had been in no shape to ask questions upon meeting her. There was something to be said, however, about being crammed between two dark skinned women in a piss smelling ally; she was saddened when no repeat performances were offered.

Isabela, she found, had taken up residence in the Hanged Man -indefinitely. A spot of trouble with her ship, Marian heard. The swill offered there was barely tolerable but she went anyway; she would swallow much worse if it meant Isabela did that finger trick again.

Face warming at the memory, Marian took her leave of the estate, not caring to dwell on the screaming coming from the library upstairs. Carver’s books-the perverted rat-had wound up mixed with Bethany’s tomes and she was none too pleased. Marian couldn’t imagine the bookish girl would be; Bethany had been reading about runes, not hoping to discover what an ‘Antivan milk sandwich’ was.

Forgoing her usual half cape and supple leather jerkin-it was her Orlesian blood to blame for such fashion statements-Marian filed out of the estate wearing a loose white tunic and brown breeches. The red sash serving as her belt was the only family color she dared wear in Lowtown, and she tucked her coinpurse safely away beside her dagger.

Many noble women were accosted in Lowtown and she aimed not to be a victim.

* * *

 

 

The Hanged Man was loud, crowded and unfortunately Isabela free. Corff, the blue eyed bartender, informed her the Rivani woman had left an hour earlier with an elven fellow. A broody man, he described, strutting around in strange clothes and stranger tattoos. Marian cursed her luck and left, dejected but not drunk enough to take any of the slatterns into one of the back rooms, even for a few minutes.

The Blooming Rose was always open, she knew, but found her desire quite extinguished. Disappointment dampened her mood but after hearing the jingle of coins against coins(the gold simply demanding to be spent)she decided it was best to instead search the flesh on sale nearby before running all the way back to Hightown. There was always the chance of coming upon unbroken girls here, fresh into the service and selling their virginities at enormous prices; no price was too high for Marian.

Steering clear of familiar faces, Marian stopping only to ask the more knowledgeable women about new workers. She came away a few sovereigns lighter(whores were bad as Fereldans about haggling)but she got what she wanted.  

An elf, a Dalish, was working the lower end near the Alienage with little success. Too shy, too modest, too picky about personal hygiene and etiquette, the other whores said with sneers.

“Thinks those knife ear tattoos make her better than us,” the charming whore spat. “Won’t be so uppity when someone carves up her pretty elf cunt and slits her throat. Just another dead knife ear that the nobles won’t even spit on.”             

Leaving the whores to mutter about genital mutilations and murders, Marian walked towards the Alienage at a steady pace. The night was humid, still sticky despite the sun having set hours before. No matter the time, Lowtown always buzzed with noise: vendors selling their trade, whores in allies moaning out fake ecstasy, guards patrolling and joking.

Far more enjoyable than Hightown, even if it smelled like the docks and Marian had to worry about cutpurses constantly. A little danger never hurt anyone, she remembered Francesca saying once when they had rolled around in a ditch. Refuse and prying eyes were easily forgotten when Francesca used her mouth for things other than talking; Maker knew the woman loved the sound of her own voice.

The Vhenadahl-Bethany could have told her what the word meant-poked out like a very big, very ugly sore thumb amid stone buildings, but it guided her to the Alienage. Marian had always skirted around the area, knowing they weren’t particularly fond of shems-especially if they were of noble blood-though she could not fault them that.

She was, after all, one they should be worried about.

Stories did the area justice; the very air smelled bitter hopelessness, the houses were unfit to be used as stables, and the denizens themselves seemed lost. Centuries of servitude could crush even the strongest people. Skinny elves mulled around, drunk off cheap wine, beggar children followed her with wary eyes and outstretched hands, even the scantily clad whores shrunk away when they saw her fine clothes and spit-shined boots. Not even the telling ring of coins could coax them out.

Windows cracked open and eyes peered at her. Greens, rich and dark; browns, warm with hatred; blues, stormy and hostile. Each more beautiful, more spiteful than the last. Marian was not welcome; a human lordling coming in the dead of night was a familiar nightmare by now.

Marian, despite her goal, had no plans of making off with children or slaughtering any of them. She bowed her head respectably, hoping to placate them and kept her dagger within view. Let them see, and judge it as a threat or trust; either one worked, she had learned.

Addressing the friendliest(friendly was perhaps a stretch)looking prostitute now that the drunks had slithered back home and the windows were slammed shut, Marian held out three sovereigns in a closed fist. “I’m not here for your...services, serah.” The girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen summers, but her dark eyes held a quiet contempt Marian rarely saw but in the most jaded soldiers.

A lacey shift-rags, in reality-hung around her slim frame, showing just enough to draw eyes toward her cleavage without giving it all away. Marian kept her hands to herself except to hand the gold over. This elven girl looked liable to invite her in with soft touches and sweet whispers, then finish her off with a steel kiss.  

Oh, how Leandra would be shamed when they found her body in a back alley, pants down and gold gone.

On another night, Marian might have taken her; tonight was reserved for Merrill. “I’m looking for someone.” Dark eyes regarded her listlessly, passing her fine clothes to stare-rather imprudently, Marian thought-at her face. Self consciously, she began to rub at the birthmark across the bridge of her nose. “An elf by the name of Merrill,” she continued.

A flash of annoyance sparked in the girl’s eyes. “You thinkin’ to fuck her? You best shove that gold up your bloody arse, shem, for all it’s worth. No one’s getting in that prudish cunt. Surprised she ain’t starved yet.” Shoving away inky black locks, the elven girl leaned against the wall, cool stone seeming to ease the night’s humidity. “She’s over there though, if you’re still lookin’.” A lazy finger pointed behind Marian, past the Vhenadahl, toward a short figure standing beside the alleyway. “Hurry, shem,” she muttered with venom, though she remained where she was to hide her gold away safely. “Meeren’s at it again.”

True to her word, upon moving closer, Marian could see(and smell)the balding man from her position beside the Vhenadahl. Ale soaked his breath and heavy daggers hung from his belt; a deadly combination if the bloody lip Merrill was sporting hinted at Meeran’s disposition.

Pushing off the tree, ire thoroughly invoked, Marian tapped the man’s shoulder once-sharply. Enough so that he jerked away from Merrill and rounded toward her, daggers drawn in unsteady hands. Flushed, sweaty in his light armor, Meeran took her in with a leer.

Marian was not a big woman: slim, light on her feet, with smooth fingers that never saw hard labor-she was the epitome of a noble. Smiles and gold were her weapons, more so than the dagger on her belt. “Meeran,” she murmured, sickly sweet-honey laced with poison.

Cold grey eyes assessed the man(a word she used loosely)currently glaring before her and quickly discarded him as a threat; he was drunk, though twice her size, and one shove would send him tumbling to his ass. Amusing as that would be, Marian had other ideas.

Flippantly, she flicked her wrist and dismissed him like she would a servant when his dagger-silverite and freshly oiled-flashed closer to her face. Not rewarding his behavior with flinching, she sneered, “Old men beating whores, is that all you are now? The Red Iron used to be something.” Marian took a half step backwards, drawing the drunken mercenary away from the cowering elf.

Crimson flushed up his neck-shame this time, not alcohol. “I’ve had enough of your pretty mouth.” It was an empty threat; he couldn’t very well slice her up in the open. Instead, he turned and grabbed Merrill’s arm, ripping her out of the shadows to thrust her at Marian. “I paid for her, I’ll do as I please.”

The bruising was much worse under the moon’s accusing light. Ugly, swollen, flesh stained a hellish array of colors; it pained Marian to look upon. Red, purple, yellow, she counted-different stages of bruising-and grimaced.

White teeth tugged at a swollen lip, chewing nervously along the ripped flesh, but no plea escaped her; skittish hands curled into feeble fist, but never raised; shoulders slumped, but eyes raised; wilted, but not broken. Kirkwall had yet to kick the fight out of her. Given enough time under Meeran and that defiance would shatter.

“Allow me to reimburse you, serah.” Marian hefted her coinpurse and tossed it to him without counting. Amells did not worry over coppers. “There’s enough in there for the whole guard to have a turn with any whore you want.” Beady brown eyes slid over the Dalish woman’s breasts while he weighed his gold, but Meeran was a smart sellsword; nothing spoke quite like the clink of gold.

He shoved her away, pocketing his gold with a grunt. “Have the knife ear. Bitch won’t give it up to you neither, no matter how much gold you throw at her.”

To her credit, the whore did not stumble far when Merran pushed her and managed to find her footing with the grace of a newborn halla. Stiffly, she turned to confront Marian after the mercenary left with one final sneer in her direction. Wide green eyes took in Marian, pouncing between relief and terror so fast the noble wondered what Merrill was expecting to happen now that she had been saved one nightmare and possible forced into another.

A tattered, black shift settled around Merrill’s thin body, holes in the fabric revealing sickly pale skin and black bruising along her ribs and breasts. Meeran was not the first to lose his temper, it would seem. Her wrists and palms were bound in tight bandages, soiled and in sore need of changing; a fresh wave of red seeped into the already dark bandages.

Her face was angular, framed in messy jet black braids; high cheekbones, sharp chin, narrow nose, thin lips turned at a permanent downward angle- beautiful, in a single word. Ink painted her skin, forging a crown of black across her forehead and over her cheeks, dipping down to her chin to mark her a true Dalish. Her feet were, curiously, bare but clean.

Marian had found her answer; she would have the Dalish girl as her own-that very night if she could and every night afterward.  

“Thank you.” A small, breathless voice-elvish accent heavy and harsh to Marian’s human ears-fell from her split lips in a rushed squeal. More muffled words followed and a quick hand was slapped across her mouth, trying to stop the rambling to no end. “Thank you, serah-”

“Messere,” Marian corrected-firmly. The pointed ears and tattoos were sin enough; if she went about stepping on some over-sensitive noble’s toes by using the wrong title she’d be drawn and quartered. The elf started, dropping her hand to stutter out another round of hurried words, using the correct title this time.

Pleased with herself(and happy to help assure the girl’s safety)Marian snapped into a bow reserved for noble ladies-never elven whores-and smiled charmingly. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.” All bad things-she left unsaid-but the rumors so far seemed the product of sharp tongued spite. “Merrill, that is your name correct?”

When the elf gave an affirmative nod, she continued. “You seem to be in the wrong profession.” Smooth fingers took hold of a bandaged hand, running over stiff bandages and calloused fingertips. “Allow me to help you, serah.” Lowering her head, Marian placed a gentle kiss upon Merrill’s fingers, mindful of the blood. “You are no good as a whore. As it happens, however, I am in need of some help.”

Immediately, her words were met with eager promises of help. “I-I’ll help you, messare! Paying that man-it must have cost you a lot.” Chewing her lip, Merrill’s eyes watered. “I couldn’t possibly pay you back right now, but...”

Marian was happy to fill in what was left unsaid. “You will work for me. What that entails is entirely at my discretion,” she forewarned. The work would not be dreadful, but Leandra had a taste for breaking the servants in hard.

The last three had bolted after just a week; a young elven girl, too soft to deal with her mother’s glaring and pointed accusations; a sweet-smelling Orlesian man that lost several teeth after staring overlong at Bethany; an old Fereldan warrior with mabari stubbornness, too good to be cleaning up after spoiled brats. “I am in quite the predicament. You see, I have have an estate to care for and a business of my own. Without workers and servants...my business falls rather flat. I’ll not ask why you are out here,” she waved around the Alienage, toward the glaring whores, “that’s your business. I, however, will grant you the means to deal with your debt to me and to whomever else you owe.”

Marian took hold of Merrill’s hand again and applied gentle pressure, watching closely when she flinched. “Those wounds, they won’t hinder your work, will they?” A careful thumb scraped against the bandage, forcing it aside to look at the skin below.

A flash of red scabs and white scars greeted her for but a moment. Merrill ripped her arm away, hugging it to her chest before Marian could even utter a word. Defiance-a far cry from the silent suffering under Meeren’s fists-lit her bright green eyes. “The Elvhen can bear more than you think,” she whispered softly. “These will not get in the way.”

Marian promised not to pry and she would not. “Very well. See to it that those are taken care of.” A rather inappropriate thought bubbled up just then and her lips twisted into a cutting smile. “Infections are bad for my business. Though, I suppose you won’t be touching any customers or the merchandise.”

Confusion wrinkled the elf’s brow. Despite the scars and the darkness in her eyes, an air of naivety hung around the elven girl that Marian found both endearing and pitiable. A new comer to Kirkwall, then, if the elf was still ignorant to whom stood before her; she was infamously dubbed ‘troublesome’ by a few nobles-a whore mongering, blasphemer by the louder majority-but Lowtown loved her(the business she brought anyway).

“Allow me to clear things up,” Marian murmured when the silence stretched. It would not due for her new employee to remain in such a state. “I am Marian Amell and you, my sweet, will be working at the Blooming Rose-as a greeter or whatever Madam Lusine sees fit. I will advise her that you are not to touch any customers and any who attempt to force themselves on you will be dealt with-severely.” Her voice was deadly calm, though a snarl sat on her full lips and her eyes held the promise of violence.

Within the next breath, the noble woman smiled and let out an easy laugh. “Enough of that.” She pulled Merrill’s hand gently away from her breasts and kissed her unbloodied fingers. The elf flinched, pale skin quivering, but she dared not pull away. “Allow me to loan you some clothes,” she whispered, grinning. “My sweet sister surely has something that will fit.”

Madame Lusine would take one look at those bloody bandages and big doe eyes and ask Marian where her sanity had escaped to.

Marian glanced at Merrill and followed those deep green eyes; she traced along the hovel they stood beside, raced over the empty stand across the alley, dallied over the Vhenadahl, and finally rested upon Marian’s own grey orbs.

When she spoke, her voice was soft-resigned. “As you wish, messere.”

 _Madam Lusine can keep her precious sanity_ , Marian thought with a sharp grin. _Give me green eyed whores any day._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope Marian doesn't seem like too much of a douche XD She is a noble after all, so it's not shocking. Bethany and Carver will show up more in the next chapter and the story will get rolling.


End file.
